Chasing Ghosts
by Jahnah
Summary: The aftermath of Fred's death is hitting George hard and he doesn't know how to cope. Days blend together into a blur of anguish and the occasional visit to a muggle coffee shop...
1. Prologue

**A/N: I do not own any of the characters mentioned. No copyright infringement intended, JK is my queen etc. etc.. Set post-war, Voldemort is dead, Fred is dead ~sob~ and George is devastated.  
><strong>**Just so you know, the female protagonist in this story, Becky (first appearence: chapter two) is basically my best friend. This fanfiction is a gift to her as she loves George. It is partly a self-insert, the character Jenny is name after and based off of me. If that puts you off, fine, but don't say I didn't warn you.  
>Rated T because in later chapters (or maybe not so later chapters) there will be swearing and possible sexual themes. Warning you now. I think that's all. No more ANs until I have more important info now. Enjoy the story! **

"Not exactly stable, is it?"

"Doesn't need to be stable. If it were stable we wouldn't be able to drop it on a bunch of Death Eaters later."

"True."

"Besides, I'm not gonna be anywhere near it. Dean's springing the trap."

"So in other words you're missing out on all the fun?"

"It would seem so." George looked at his brother, their faces splitting in identical grins. Behind them the subject of their conversation, a wall, teetered on a pile of bricks. Even held up by magic it looked as if it would fall on them any second.

"Fred, with me!" someone bellowed from halfway down the corridor. Fred scrunched up his nose and clapped a hand on George's shoulder.

"See you on the other side, Georgie."

"Be careful."

"When am I not?" Fred grinned, gave his brother a pat on the back, considered hugging him. And then he turned and George watched him bounding off after a group of defenders, dragon skin coat flying out behind him. George fingered the material of his own coat nervously, the sound of war preparations loud in his one working ear.

"Be careful," he repeated, hoping that for once his twin would take care of himself and not be impulsive. He was always the more reckless of the two.

"He'll be okay," Jenny said, appearing beside George and looking after her boyfriend even though he had long since turned the corner. She looked pale and serious, so unlike herself that George quickly turned away.

"He'll be fine," she repeated, tapping her wand against her leg.

"Careful with that or you'll set yourself on fire," George joked a little half-heartedly, working to keep the rising panic out of his voice. For a moment he thought she hadn't heard him, but she nodded. George saw beads of sweat on her forehead and he swallowed, hard, plastering a huge fake grin onto his face.

"Fight hard. Don't die," he said, giving Jenny a brief hug. He was struck by how small she was, how thin. Barely up to his and Fred's shoulders.

"You make sure you're careful too," she said into his chest, and then she was pulling away and the cold air was hitting his body and they were smiling weakly at each other, their mutual worry for Fred passing between them. Noticed yet unacknowledged.

"And, you know, you. Fred would kill me if anything happened to you."

"He needn't worry." She smiled again and turned away as the first sounds of battle reached them.

Later she would remember the last time Fred had kissed her, curse him for lying, saying he'd be okay. She'd wish she had clung to him, not let him out of her sight so he could've been somewhere else when that wall was blown apart. She would look down through blurred vision and the features she knew so well, now unmoving under then enchanted ceiling. She would feel George's arms wrap around her and look up at him, seeing only Fred in his eyes. And he would look back at her, hate her for not being with him, but his own grief would be reflected back at him. He would close his eyes and see her as Fred did. They would hang onto each other, seeking what could not be brought back. They would reach out together and try to pull Fred over to them, because Fred could not be dead. Jenny could not be in a world without him and George could be himself without him.


	2. Chapter One

Most days George rolled over to find that the sun was already high in the sky, beaming at him like the happiest thing in the world. Most days he flicked the curtains closed and rolled right back over to find the empty bed across the room reminding him of what had happened. Most days he cursed and threw the covers off him, got dressed slowly before going downstairs where he was met with whispers and worried glances and the pretence that everything was normal, that he was fine, just fine.

He would eat breakfast and then retreat to the garden where he would read a book, two books, endless books until he didn't know fact from fiction. He read muggle books about romance, secret plans, spies and music. He had his food outside and once or twice when evening had come, he had gone out. He'd apparated to London and found himself in a night club, bass thumping through his feet and girls in skimpy clothing and lots of make up throwing themselves at him. The first time it happened he had gone home with one of them, left the next morning before she had woken up. The second time he'd gotten drunk on some clear liquid that burned his throat. The second girl found him funny, so he went home with her too. He didn't even wait until morning to leave that time. The third time it happened he was found sneaking out of the flat. The girl was younger than him, maybe eighteen. She held a thin blanket around herself and asked where he was going. George said he had to get home and left her standing there, that see-through blanket still wrapped around her body. He didn't remember their names; meaningless one night stands didn't help anything, didn't fill up the gaping Fred sized hole in his life, and so he stopped going to muggle London, and instead stayed home. He preferred the warm hum of firewhiskey in his stomach to the acid like feel of vodka, and so he drank it. He swapped his books and make-believe worlds for a bottle of drink, two bottles of drink, three, four. It numbed his mind and he spent his days slumping around the house, keeping up the fine, just fine attitude that his family had started. On the occasions he found himself sober he could see small things, insignificant things that lacked his brother. The family clock now had one less arm, the table laid for one less person.

Sometimes he wondered if moving back to the Burrow after the war was a mistake, but then the thought of the flat he shared with Fred, the loneliness of it all would creep into his mind, and he would reach for another drink.

June and July 1997 were spent in a daze of alcohol and arguments about his health, his life, his friends and family. George resented himself, he resented Percy and Harry. The Chosen One, who let his friends die for him. He wanted them all to leave him alone, but they didn't. They thought he was unstable, unfit for work or life in the outside world. So he locked himself in his room for days on end, cutting up pictures, removing all faces from them until only Fred's was left. He stuck them on the walls and held a small memorial for his brother. He told no one else about it, didn't want them to spoil it with their concern. Mrs Weasley stopped buying alcohol and George was forced into sobriety. The shock and anger and pain struck him with full force. He punched Percy in the face once, and had shouted when his brother had looked at him helplessly. _You were helpless that day too, weren't you? When you watched him die… Why didn't you do anything?_

He wanted to punch Harry too. The Chosen One. The one who had not gone to Voldemort soon enough. Why did he get to survive? Why did he get to live while Fred died for him?

Still Mrs Weasley kept him close to her in that motherly hen way that she had. She fussed about him, giving him plenty of water and insisting that he eat something because look how skinny he's getting. George waved her off with cold looks and snappy remarks and she would stand up straight and square her shoulders and click her teeth disapprovingly, though when she turned to leave her bottom lip trembled.

August melted into September without George's knowledge. Every day was long, felt the same. He had no way to know what day it was, or even what time it was. Clocks were useless. The only thing he would want a clock for would be to turn back time, or to see how long it would be until his own time ran out. Surely being with Fred would be better than this?

"George Wealsey, you are going to join us at the table tonight for dinner, you hear me?"

"Yeah."

"Five minutes."

George watched his mother bustle back into the kitchen, his face expressionless. He wasn't hungry, was never hungry these days, but Mrs Weasley was worried, deathly worried, and so he was sitting with his family to eat a home cooked dinner for the first time in nearly four months. It was the last day before school started again, Ginny and Hermione were being chauffeured to King's Cross Station in the morning and George would have several blissful hours to himself. Ron would be with Harry somewhere, his parents would be seeing the girls off, Percy would be at work.

"Dinner!" Mrs Weasley hollered and the rest of the family trickled into the room. Mr Wealsey looked thinner than he used to be. He smiled tiredly at his wife and sat down as she placed the food on the table. Ron and - Geroge's fists clenched - Harry and Percy came in together, followed by Hermione and Ginny. George sat between his mother and sister, helped himself to some peas and chicken. He didn't take much, and when he looked up he glared. Hermione looked like she might cry, Ron's hand clamped firmly around hers next to his plate. Harry refused to look up from his food and Ginny's lips were pursed while Mr Weasley made idle small talk about the weather.

"Nice day, isn't it? Glad there's no rain… getting colder though, that's for sure."

George slammed down his knife and fork and sat back in his seat, arms crossed, eyes on his unfinished food. There was a moment of silence.

"George, finish your food-" Mrs Weasley started, her voice trembling. Her voice was always trembling nowadays.

"I'm not hungry." Silence around the table. No one had ever known George to be so blunt and sharp, and he had given them no time to get used to it, preferring not to speak or be around them.

"Are you sure? You're being very-"

"I'm fine!" George said a little too loudly. He was overwhelmed by a sudden need to escape, just get out of there. Go somewhere where the empty place at the table wouldn't keep drawing his eye, where there were no memories of his dead twin. George stood, knocking his chair backwards. "I'm fine," he repeated, rushing to the door and pulling on his coat. It was still light, only four o'clock.

"George?" A chair scraped across the floor and light footsteps followed him through the house to the door. "Where are you going?"

"Out," he said, turning to look at Ginny. She leaned against the door, her eyes tired, arms crossed. He felt a pang of guilt. How could they expect to get better with him being how he was? But how could he get better at all? He pursed his lips.

"Be back later."

And he started towards the small village, leaving Ginny leaning against the door frame, the light spilling out into the garden. She chewed the inside of her cheek, looking after her brother as he trudged off up the hill.

"Is he okay?" Harry asked, his hand on her shoulder, breath hot in her ear. Ginny shook her head.

"No."


	3. Chapter Two

Arriving late at the Burrow always made Jenny feel guilty. She hated being late, was always early if she could help it, but by the time she left her shabby little flat it was already four. Dinner would have started, George would already be in his room… For that she was glad. For almost four months she had been spending most of her time at the Burrow, helping Mrs Weasley around the house, watching George get drunk and go out and come home the next morning in the same clothes. She wanted to talk to him, pat him on the back and say inspirational and comforting things, and then they would talk about Fred and both of them would cry and start getting better. Instead she found herself in frequent company with Percy, talking about the Ministry or the recent books they had read. She sometimes hated talking to him: his job was obviously the most important thing to him, he only read boring, informative books and he had this habit of constantly adjusting his glasses. He seemed determined to avoid George as much as possible, and Jenny didn't blame him. She would avoid George herself if he wasn't so… well, so much like Fred. Every time she saw him she was hit with a sadness and longing so strong she had to bite her tongue to force it down. Every time she caught a whiff of his aftershave - even if it was only there to cover up the stink of grief - she found she couldn't remember if it was the same one that Fred wore and wanted to take George and shake him, make him talk because she was scared she was going to forget the precise colour of his eyes, the exact placement of the freckles on his face. The differences that had always differentiated the two of them were suddenly gone: all of George's mannerisms and looks were Fred Fred Fred. Nothing but Fred.

She herself had gone out to a bar, brought a stranger home. He was tall and skinny, red hair, a beard. She couldn't remember his name, only the fact that when he kissed her outside the pub he had tasted just as Fred had when they went on dates: of booze and cheap take away and she had asked him to come back to her flat, just so she could taste him some more, find Fred in this perfect stranger. When she woke up the next day he had been in the kitchen, naked and she had recoiled and asked him to leave, her robe pulled tightly around herself, her head throbbing. She promised herself it wouldn't happen again, and it didn't. She stayed away from the mind altering drinks and sought out comfort from Mrs Weasley. They talked about George and she forgot who he was, focused on who he wasn't. They never talked about Fred. Jenny thought that if they did, both she and Mrs Weasley would dissolve and while Mrs Weasley would stagger back to her feet and tend to the rest of her family, Jenny would almost certainly fade away into nothing.

Pulling her coat around herself, Jenny double-checked that her door was locked and apparated into the Burrow's front garden. Ginny stood with Harry by the door, a figure walked in the opposite direction. Jenny stared at him, a surge of worry and resentment contorting her features. He looked too much like his brother like that, with his shoulder hunched against a small wind, head bowed. She had almost thought it was him, walking away from her again. For a moment, she hated George for not being who she wanted.

"Are you going to come in?" Ginny asked and Jenny spun around, smiled weakly and stepped through the door.

"Yeah yeah, sorry I'm late. There was a problem with Midnight," she said quickly, flinging her coat over the arm of a chair and slumping into a seat at the table. She cleaned a plate of unfinished chicken and then loaded it up again.

"Is he okay?" Hermione asked. Jenny's cat had been the love of Hermione's life ever since he'd been bought in Jenny's seventh year.

"He's fine now. Just had a bit of stomach problems."

Hermione looked relieved and Crookshanks jumped up onto Jenny's lap, purring and digging his claws into her legs until she gave him some of her chicken, as she always did. He took it gently and then leapt down again, carrying his prize into a corner. Jenny looked at him, felt a pang in her chest, and then turned back to her food and the conversation around her.

George pushed open the heavy door to the coffee shop - Mr Bean, a small place with a picture of a coffee bean in a top hat and cane dancing heartily next to the logo - and checked his pockets. If he was lucky, he would have some money. If he was very lucky, he would have some muggle money. The girl behind the counter looked him up and down and he couldn't help notice how her eyes held no pity, her lips did not move to form comforting words. _She didn't know him,_a small voice in the back of his mind said, and George felt an irrational surge of hatred ran through him. How could she not have known Fred? How could she stand there totally oblivious that his best friend, his _brother_, had left this world, never to return? His fists clenched and he bit his tongue.

"Can I help you?" she asked, and he nodded curtly, stepped forward, dumped some money on the counter.

"Tea, please."

"What kind?" George blinked at her. She was pretty, with bright red hair that showed brown roots, brown eyes, defined cheekbones.

"Tea," he repeated and the girl - Becky, her nametag claimed - shook her head and smiled.

"Herbal tea is good for the soul," she said.

"Fine," George snapped, getting irritated. Becky raised her eyebrows and he felt shame course through him.

"Anything else?"

"Uh," he looked around. "A muffin?" She tapped some buttons on some sort of thing that flashed a price in his face.

"£4.67 please." George fumbled around with the month he brought out of his pocket. What were the pound coins again? He separated the galleons from the unfamiliar money, the knuts from the pennies. Becky watched, amused.

"Need some help?"

"I got it." He managed to pull out some paper money, a note that proudly stated £5. He handed it over.

"You from out of town?" Becky asked, giving him some change and another piece of paper. George didn't answer and Becky blew her hair out of her face.

"Okay, go sit down. I'll bring your tea over when it's done," she said irritably. She was used to odd customers, they came in all the time. Some asked for her number, some openly stared at her chest, some snapped at her when she wasn't fast enough making their coffee in the morning, but she'd never seen anyone so… sad before. This boy - a man, really - looked as if his life had been pulled out from under him and he looked so lost and so heartbreakingly upset. She wanted to leap across the dark wood between them and wrap her arms around him, tell him she didn't know what was wrong but he should smile. A smile would suit him, she thought, looking him up and down, trying to figure him out. He was of average height and medium build, he had that look about him of someone who has lost a lot of weight very quickly. Still handsome though. Tapping her pencil against the coffee machine, she thought about what he was like as a person. Quiet, maybe, but funny. Sweet when he needed to be, shy, maybe a musician? He looked like someone who could be a musician, in some ripped jeans and a baggy jumper, large overcoat. This man playing a guitar… Becky wished she could see that.

She set out the tea on a saucer, picked up a napkin and, on an impulse, wrote on the napkin _cheer up, stranger. I bet you £10 you'd look even better smiling. _Straightening up, she looked at her scruffy writing and sighed. I bet you £10 you'd look even better smiling? What was she? She grabbed the napkin and stuffed it in her pocket, giving the saucer a fresh one and nudged the small door open with her hip, walked over to the table and deposited the tea in front of the man.

"One herbal tea, hot and ready for action," Becky grinned a little too widely, her voice a little too high._ If this is how you flirt I swear to God-_

"Thanks," he mumbled, and Becky gave him another smile, thought about sitting next to him but she was still on her shift and with a resigned sigh she shuffled back behind the counter and sat on her stool, notebook lying in front of her. If she could draw she might sketch this man before her. But she couldn't draw, and so she flipped open her notebook and wrote about him instead. She imagined him with his family. Maybe he had a small nephew who he'd play with. Toss in the air and stick his tongue out at. Maybe an older brother who would give him knuckle sandwiches. She wrote about why he might look so sad. His grandmother just died, his girlfriend of three years broke up with him yesterday, he-

The bell above the door - "It's old, people love it! Shows we're authentic," Susie, the manager, insisted - chimed and Becky looked up just in time to see a head of ginger hair disappearing behind the giant dancing bean pasted onto the window.


	4. Chapter Three

George hated mirrors. Every time he saw his reflection it was like he was seeing Fred, and a small bubble of happiness would rise in his chest at the sight of a face identical to his own staring back at him. And then he would move and that bubble would pop and any trace of a smile he had found was gone.

Now, as he stood in front of the mirror in his and Fred's old room, George rubbed at his freckles angrily, willing them to change. He squashed down his nose, stood on his tiptoes, ran a hand over the stubble he had allowed to grow in the week since his visit to the muggle village. And yet no matter what he did, it was always his dead twin looking sadly back at him.

With a surge of anger, George lashed out, the mirror shattering under his fist and falling backwards into the half empty wardrobe. Following the loud crash, he heard footsteps, urgent knocks on his door, and then Mrs Weasley was bursting in, taking his bleeding hand and tutting.

"Honestly, George, you need to be more careful," she said sternly, taking out her wand and tapping his knuckles gently.

"It's fine," George said quietly, clenching his fist and taking his hand out of her grasp.

"But you're bleeding!"

"I'll put a bandage on it."

"It'll scar."

George flexed his fingers, imagining small white lines standing out against his skin, rippling as he moved his hand. He shrugged.

"So?"

Mrs Weasley went to take his hand again, muttering something about 'being silly', 'doesn't know what he's talking about' and George once again moved away.

"Mum," he said, levelling his gaze at her. She looked at him, eyes moist and mouth set. He could see the name 'Fred' hanging onto her lips and George scowled, rage welling up inside him.

"I'm going out," he said, brushing past her and summoning his coat from the wardrobe.

"George-"

"I'll be back in a few hours."

He left his mother standing in his room, her eyes on the broken mirror, and walked out of the door, slamming it behind him and cursing loudly. Everyone treated him differently, like he was something that could break any second. He was tired of the tiptoeing, the hushed conversations, the concerned looks. He couldn't remember the last time someone had genuinely smiled at him, the last time he had smiled back without blaming them a little for Fred's death. Percy, Ron, Harry, Hermione, his mother… Where it had always been Fred and George vs. the world it was now just George against the universe. The number of times he had been patted on the back, told he was understood… He wanted to punch the people who had false feelings of understanding in the face. How could they understand? It wasn't them who had lost a twin, who had looked down upon a face exactly like their own in all ways except one: it was no longer living.

George kicked a stone as hard as he could, wishing he could follow, get lost somewhere and not be recognised, just another person in a sea of faces…

He took a sharp left and looked down the road that led to the village. He could go there again, sit in the coffee shop. No one knew him. The girl with the red hair was cute, oblivious to what he had gone through. To them he was just another stranger looking for a warm drink. Quickly, George started walking. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, clenched his wand tightly and kept his eyes on the distance until the first small cluster of houses came into view. He slowed down, walking along the side of the road against the trees, the cottages around him housing small happy families or newlyweds or an old married couple dancing to slow muggle music. George looked in on their cosy lives like a hungry child, basking in the glow of their smiles and laughs. By the time he reached the coffee shop he no longer felt angry, but he yearned for the feeling of happiness these people had. The feeling of a brother being beside him, a mother who didn't have to think when she said his name to avoid calling him something she shouldn't.

The bell tinkled as he pushed open to door to Mr Bean and instantly he sought out the red hair behind the counter. She was the only familiar face in here and she smiled as he approached the counter.

"Uh," George looked up at the menu. What was it he had last time.

"Mr Herbal Tea," Becky said and George glanced at her. She was smiling. For a second he felt like bolting out of there because no one smiled at him like that, like nothing was wrong. No one could look that happy and carefree because his brother was dead. Had been dead for months. How could anyone be smiling now?

"Yeah, herbal tea," he said quietly, pulling out some money and trying to remember which piece of paper he gave her last time.

"Coming right up." She turned, bumping into someone - another girl, shorter than Becky, with shoulder length mousy hair and black glasses - and started the thing that made the drink. It hissed and steamed and George turned around, slinking over to the table he had sat at before.

Becky watched him over her shoulder, the hot water nearly pouring onto her fingers. He looked so sad… She sighed and Sarah mimicked her.

"Shut up," Becky mumbled and Sarah grinned.

"Are you crushing on him?"

"No!"

"Because you _do _have a boyfriend."

"Really?" Becky rolled her eyes.

"Really," Sarah repeated seriously, nodding.

"Good thing I' not crushing on him then." Sarah shook her head and Becky smiled happily and pushed open the little swinging door to take the tea over to the stranger.

"Here," she said, placing it in front of him as soundlessly as she could.

"Thanks." He wrapped his hands around the cup and she wondered if he played piano. He had nice hands… She shook herself mentally and stood next to him for a few moments.

"What?" he snapped. Becky shook her head.

"Nothing…"

He huffed and turned back to the table, watching the steam rise up and curl into nothing. How long was she going to stand there?

"What's your name?" She blurted out as if she'd been holding the question in for a long time. George looked up, surprised. _What would happen if I said Fred? _he wondered. She hadn't known him, so what if George just said he was his dead twin? But… it would be wrong. Like trying to bring back something that was long gone. George fought to keep his face straight.

"George."

"I'm Becky." There was that smile again. George wished she'd stop smiling and just be miserable.

"Yeah I know." She raised her eyebrows and George blushed to the roots of his hair. "I mean- you're wearing a nametag."

"Right," she said, blushing as well and laughing a little. George looked back down at the table, tracing the wooden lines. Becky watched him, her eyes following his finger, entranced.

"Becky, customer!" Sarah called and Becky jumped.

"Right," she said to George. "See you around Georgie." She grinned and turned around before she could see the look of shock on his face, the way his features twisted at the nickname.

"Why can't you deal with this one?" Becky asked grumpily as Sarah bent over her notebook.

"I have an idea," she replied.

"You always have an idea."

"This one's good though!"

Becky rolled her eyes and turned to the new arrival, looking over at George whenever she could. Strange, he didn't seem to be drinking. For hours he sat there, tracing patterns on the surface of the table, a hundred emotions passing over his face and Becky watched him carefully until her shift was up.

"See you tomorrow," Sarah said, and Becky waved back, wondering if she'd seen her and George's exchange earlier. The whole ride home she thought of him, wondered more about his background. She wondered once again is he was a musician, if he had siblings, a girlfriend, and when she got back to her poky little flat above a corner shop she was greeted with the smell of bacon and eggs.

"Hey darling," Darren grinned, weaving through the mess to kiss her cheek, a frying pan in his hand. "How was work?"

"It was good," Becky laughed, leaning back to avoid being burned by the pan. She opened her mouth to tell him about the sad, handsome man called George but something stopped her. She wanted to keep George to herself. If she told Darren he would be interested, happy and he'd just cuddle her and be loving like he always was.

"Good is good," Darren said, nuzzling her neck and nearly tipping the bacon into the floor.

"Careful!" Becky laughed, pulling away and swatting at him with her jacket. He pouted and returned to the stove, blowing her a kiss as she made her way into her room. Something like guilt caught in her chest as she looked back at Darren whistling over the sizzling meat, but she pushed it down, threw her jacket onto the bed and leaned against the doorframe.

"Bacon for dinner!" Darren shouted and Becky thought about George, still in the coffee shop. Alone.


	5. AUTHOR'S NOTE  story resumes January

**Some kind of important information about this story: **

I'm going on hiatus with this to everyone who favourited and tracked this story, but I have no idea where I'm going with it, still haven't planned out all the major plot points or brainstormed any ideas for ANY future chapters, and I really need to do that before carrying on otherwise this story will go down the drain.

Also I am in the midst of stressing about GCSEs and exams and I have more maths to do than I can handle. Again, I apologise sincerely to anyone who wanted to read more of this story (even though it's been SO LONG since the last chapter came out anyway) and I will try to plan out more of it when I have less to worry about schooling and exam wise.

Bear with me, I'm sure I'll get around to writing more and eventually finishing this story some day.

Thank you all who favourited and tracked and has read it so far! Once I've started up again then feel free to bombard me until I update if I miss uploading a chapter one month.

- Jenny x


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